


Proof

by orphan_account



Series: Married to Francis. [4]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis and Edward return from their honeymoon to find that they are accused by scandalized Conservatives of faking gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Edward stretches lazily, like a cat, as Francis rubs his feet; his expression is blissful, practically drooling. The newlyweds had only just returned to the Residence after a short but intense two day honeymoon at Camp David, minus Frankie, who stayed home under Nancy's watch.

“What’s with him?” asks Doug Stamper, eying the First Gentlemen warily, as if Edward’s splendid lassitude will somehow infect the 'Type A' Chief of Staff. Doug's never seen the former Secret Service Agent so relaxed.

“Edward?” Francis rubs harder at a spot just below the ball of his husband’s right foot, earning a fluttering of sooty eyelashes and a heartfelt moan of contentment. “Fucked him silly.”

Doug rolls his eyes and blushes, simultaneously. “Sir…”

Edward rolls his eyes, sneaky with the foot that’s not being rubbed, tickling Francis’s belly.

“As I was saying,” Doug continues sharply, “The phones won’t stop ringing and I can’t tell you how many requests we’ve gotten for interviews – you, Edward, the two of you, together. Sixty Minutes, Dateline, CNN, the Advocate, hell, even Oprah's been sending muffin baskets.  All the major magazines…”

“So, the consensus?” asks Francis, reaching across to untuck Edward’s shirt, exposing his belly button, which he tickles.

“People are eating it up,” Doug tells them, flashing headlines from magazines and newspapers, national and international. “Your approval ratings have never been higher. Except…”

“What?”

“This,” frowns Doug, reluctantly tossing Francis a sheath of papers, printouts from the rabidly conservative WolfNews.

“ _Gay-Gate? President Underwood’s Fake Gay Wedding_? ” Francis laughs. “Next thing you know, Donald Trump is going to say that Edward and I were born in Kenya?”

Grimly, Doug holds up a copy of the NY Daily News. “ _Trump to President: Meechum Gay for Pay_.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” grunts Francis, turning the newspaper so Edward can see. “I’ll have to frame this one.”

“This is serious, Sir.”

“What do they want? Video of our wedding night?”

Doug blushes. “Of course not. In fact, it’s probably best to ignore them. But…”

“Take a picture of my dick in Francis’s mouth,” volunteers Edward slowly, his words enunciated with care.

“I don’t think that will stop the naysayers, Ed,” snaps Doug.

Edward shrugs, sitting up to give his husband a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will notice a few big changes, additions that come from events in Season 4. If you haven't seen it yet, at least the first four episodes, please keep this in mind. One detail has obviously changed, as you'll see.
> 
> This chapter is largely one of Frank's asides, which explain what's been going on.
> 
> If there are any questions, please ask in the comments.
> 
> PS - I am not a doctor. Accuracy of all things medical is suspect.

 

 

Francis shivers; kissing Edward is like nothing else in the world, a constant reminder of indelible hungers not even Claire nor the other women he’s bedded could ever erase. But it’s not just the faint stubble nor the fact that Francis’s fingers trace hard muscle instead of soft breasts – it’s that it’s Edward that kisses him with such eagerness and delight. With reluctance, Francis ends the kiss. His face rearranges into something more neutral than sloppy sentimental. His eyes focus on an invisible spot instead of Doug or Edward.

_It’s been a while, hasn’t it?  You know about Claire’s death and Frankie’s birth but perhaps you don’t know about the assassination attempt? Two weeks after we announced Claire’s pregnancy to the delight of the nation, Lucas Goodwin decided to take me out for good. Perhaps our happiness was too much for him; after all, I took away Zoe, whom he was foolish to love._ _Whatever spurred him into action is moot, for now, thanks to Edward’s fine shooting, Goodwin's ashes are moldering in a dusty coffee can on an undertaker’s shelf, unclaimed and unloved to the end._

_We didn’t go unscathed, Edward and I. Bullets pierced his spleen and left lung. The spleen had to go and we’ll get to his lung in just a bit. Me? I got a scratch on my side and a pulverized liver. It was touch and go for both of us, but we pulled through, my liver beginning to regenerate even as I was placed on the organ transplant list._

_Of course Edward came home to us to recover from the ordeal, a recovery a great deal slower than my own, so that he couldn’t follow us overseas for the Queen’s funeral, a trip that ended with one dead wife and one live baby. On paid leave for six months, automatic for someone shot defending yours truly, Edward folded neatly into our lives, mine and Frankie’s, making himself indispensable. He’d taken charge of a baby once before, his sister, poor little mite, and he changed diapers and made bottles and a million other duties like he’d been made for the job, throwing his grief aside to help me and mine._

_My Gran used to say that bad things come in threes. No, scratch that – she’d say ‘death’ comes in threes but now I’m both a husband and a father, I hope that I’m out of that business – at least of the up close and personal variety. But no one can get out of the business of bad things, not unless you’re dead, and so after 1. Claire’s death, and 2. The assassination attempt, I shouldn’t have been surprise to notice that the cold Edward claimed to have caught was lingering beyond the normal threshold._

_And my Gran would have nodded, vindicated in her homespun beliefs, when I spotted something in Edward’s hand that I couldn’t ignore._

_“Show me,” I’d asked, repeating myself again, this time an order, when he didn’t obey. It was a small cloth diaper, one of the dozens that Edward stashed everywhere – not for diapering but for wiping noses and sticky fingers, for mopping up spills. It’s jolly pink and white pattern, I could see when Edward finally gave it over, was marred with red stains, both dark and fresh scarlet. And as I tried to read the spots as if some form of cuneiform, Edward coughed again, hard – doubling over, and blood… Oh, God, there was so much blood._

_He tried to explain that it was just a really bad cold, that it hadn’t been going on for long and he hadn’t wanted to worry me. Later that evening, before the surgery to remove splinters of bone and bullet that had lingered to cause a slow burning infection, Edward told me that he hoped to return to active duty when his six months of rest concluded, heading Frankie’s detail if not my own._

_Edward had a stroke during the surgery, a stray blood clot working its way from the mess of his lung to his brain. It left him with a limp that’s become almost imperceptible. It’s also left him, for all intents and purposes, mute._

_Physical therapy, swimming, running on the White House track using the handle bars of Frankie’s stroller for balance has restored Edward’s gait. I even taught the boy to dance. Hell, on Friday afternoons, we still close the Oval Office for business early. Music selected, sofas and chairs are pushed against the walls and all of us, Doug, Seth, Nancy, Cathy and visiting dignitaries join Edward and me for an hour or two of waltzes, foxtrots and sambas. But Edward’s voice hasn’t been as easy to recover, even with voice therapy almost every day.   His personality, his intelligence and humor are perfectly intact and he can speak, usually a person’s name or yes or no.  It's slowly getting better but it’s just so damned hard.  _

_“It’s like trying to compute a tip while simultaneously reciting the alphabet backwards,” one of the speech therapists told me. But Edward can type and we’ve got a souped up, mutant Blackberry that he can use to to talk, to make his point, though he tells me it’s awkward as hell and nearly impossible to use to make ordinary conversation. That leaves American Sign Language, which we’re all learning, me and Edward and the staff, all of them – from maids to our Secret Service details to Doug and the rest, even the baby. The lessons are optional but everyone is taking them, not just because Edward is married to the President but because, well, everyone likes Edward. And so do I._

_Are we caught up, now? Good._


	3. Chapter 3

Doug averts his eyes, blushing as Francis leans into Edward’s kiss, slipping the First Gentleman some Presidential tongue.

It’s Edward, the most sensitive of the three of them, that notices Doug’s discomfort. Glancing over Francis’s shoulder, Edward closes his right hand, palm facing inward and circles his heart several times while slowly, deliberately saying ‘crude’ as he apologizes. Doug shrugs, touching his chin with the fingertips of his right hand, tipping forward as he murmurs, ‘Thanks’, even as he’s still blushing.

“I’d apologize, too,” Francis pronounces, giving his Chief of Staff a brief glance before staring proudly at Edward. “But did you hear how long that sentence was?”

Edward grins, preening. Francis kisses him again, a brief peck before turning his full attention towards Doug.

“Am I imagining things or do I sense some unresolved homophobia,” he asks bitingly.

Withering under the President’s piercing eyes, Doug gulps. “Ah, yes. I mean, no.” He miserably crosses his arms, a defense. “I mean, yes, I guess. It’s just…”

“Just what?” growls Francis.

“It’s just that I thought you were one thing and now, you’re something else. I’ve been your employee and, I hope, your friend, for over fifteen years and now I feel that I don’t know you at all.”

Francis scowls; he’d hoped that this would be easier, that Doug would understand.

“I’m exactly the same person, Doug. Just, now you know something more about me. Now everyone does.”

Doug flicks a piece of lint from his trousers.  “Do you remember when we picked Peter Russo to work with? How we went through a list of potentials and you rejected one because you said he was too queer?’

“What are you asking? Did I sleep with him?” Francis replies, dander rising.

“Did you?” asks Edward. Startled by his typically silent husband’s words, Francis shakes his head. “No, no, I didn’t. Not because he didn’t ask,” he adds defensively.

“What about Tom Yates,” demands Doug, willing now to face the issue, to take the bull by the proverbial horns.

Edward nods stiffly, sliding closer to Doug, the distance between himself and Francis a chasm.

“No,” Francis answers, plain and simple.

“Really?” Doug asks sarcastically though Edward relaxes, his hand reaching for Francis’s.

“My husband believes me. And as far I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.”

“Ed?”

Edward nods, smiling.

“He can tell when I’m lying,” Francis confesses to Doug. “It’s his super power.”

“If you’re good with it, Ed, than I am. But I’m sorry, it’s going to take some time to get used to this.”

Francis crosses his legs, glancing down at the fine shine of his shoes. “We all will. Hell, don’t you think Edward and I are finding it a little strange, the world speculating what’s going on in our bedroom?”

“ _Our_ bedroom,” Edward grins, pulling the President into a loose hug.

“Huh?”

“Oh.  Despite what most people think, Edward and I haven’t slept together before now,” Francis admits. “At least since before Claire died.”

Doug looks incredulous. “You haven’t?”

They shake their heads. “What with mourning and Frankie and Edward’s stroke, plus the campaign, we haven’t. The story we’re telling is true.” Francis chuckles. “Mostly true. We’re leaving out the threesomes and the fact that Frankie could be either of ours…”

Doug quakes. “Sir?”

“You didn’t guess? Claire and I started enjoying Edward’s attentions around the time I became Vice President. And on the night Frankie was conceived, both Edward and I both…” Francis searches for words. “We, ah, both taxied down Claire’s runway, so to speak.”

“I gotta go,” whispers Doug.

“Not until we’re done,” orders Francis. “About this Gay-gate thing. We need to make a plan.”

Doug shrinks into the cushions, as if he’s suddenly recalled something miserable. “Wait, Frank. There’s more.”

“More? More than being accused of faking a same-sex marriage?”

Opening his laptop, turning it to face the President and First Gentleman, Doug sighs. “Yes. It’s Tom Hammershmidt. You know he’s got a show on Fox News, right?”

“Much to my displeasure,” replies Francis with a shudder as the theme song for ‘HammerTime with Tom Hammershmidt’ begins to plays over the laptop’s cheap speakers. Doug forwards the video. “Here.”

 

 _“My fellow Republicans are accusing the President of perpetrating a falsehood upon the American People…The World. But they’ve got it wrong, and it’s worse_ ,” Hammershmidt gloats, pointing to a graphic of Edward as he leaves the hospital after his stroke, as he leans heavily against the President before entering a black, armored SUV. “ _Anonymous sources are saying that Underwood is preying upon a disabled man, a man whose brain damage has left him unable to fend off the President’s sick sexual demands. Edward Meechum, by all accounts an American hero, a decorated Marine and a Secret Service Agent who made the ultimate sacrifice, is, I’m sad to say, mentally retarded. And that’s just how Francis Underwood likes it_.”

 

The laptop goes flying, breaking into a thousand bits while Francis curses. “I’m going to kill that man with my bare hands,” he swears, spit flying. “Just like Zoe and Peter and…”

“Francis!” Edward warns, pulling his husband into his arms before more is admitted.

“Oh, it this time will be different,” snarls Francis. “I didn’t enjoy killing those two but this time…”

Edward’s hand clamps over the President’s mouth. Deflated, Francis’s knees buckle and he slips back onto the couch.

“You should probably ignore what I just said,” Francis asks Doug when he finally calms down.

“We _all_ have secrets, Sir,” Doug replies pointedly. The three men nod.

“I’m sorry about your laptop,” adds Francis meekly. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Francis taps his ring against the coffee table, not his typical two-beats but a light stead tapping as he thinks. “Do you remember that reporter, the one who interviewed Russo for the New York Times?”

“Daniel Rosen? He works for Vanity Fair, now.”

“Good. Call him up so he can interview me and Edward. Have him bring that photographer lady, the one that does all the magazine covers, Annie-what’s-her-face.  America is hungry for information and we’re going to drown Hammershmitt out with the truth.”

Nodding brightly, Doug relaxes. “Anything else, Sir?”

“Yes. We should do some tv. Sooner rather than later.”

“Anderson Cooper, maybe?”

Francis smiles. “No, I’ve got something better in mind. Get Stephen Colbert on the phone for me.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s while Francis is on the phone with Colbert that Edward withdraws to the kitchen, retrieving a dustpan and broom.

It’s while Francis is laughing that Edward, unobserved, begins to sweep up the shards of glass from the broken laptop. It’s only when he hisses, that Francis hangs up and takes notice.

“Honey, let housekeeping take care of that,” Francis scolds, his complexion blanching when he sees Edward’s fingertip, bright with blood.

“Jesus!”

What happens next has Doug wishing he was about a million miles away, yet content to be the fly on the wall that observes the inner workings of the President’s new marriage.

It isn’t pretty.

Francis, paler still, tries to maneuver Edward back to the couch after hurrying to retrieve a nearby first aid kit. Edward refuses to move until every bit of glass is off the floor, his pretty lips a thin, stubborn line. He continues to resist his husband’s entreaties, now dabbing at the drops of blood with a kitchen rag.

“Edward?”

There is a flurry of gestures between the newlyweds. It’s mostly Edward but Doug notices with pride that Francis’s fluency in American Sign Language has increased greatly in the past few months. Doug can’t follow everything but he sees the signs for ‘baby’, ‘anger’, ‘temper’ – that one is repeated quite a bit. He’s never heard Edward raise his voice, not even once, but the First Gentleman is dressing down Francis as thoroughly as any drill sergeant. Francis stutters his excuses as he signs, explaining away his fit of pique, asking Edward to please sit down so that he can bandage his finger. Edward shakes his head, retreating from the room without a look back.

“Would you like me to leave?” Doug asks, heading for the sideboard where a bottles of brandy and bourbon reside. After witnessing a domestic spat, Doug certainly wants a drink and if he can’t have one, Francis can.

Francis drains the cup. He rubs the bridge of his nose and groans. “Goddamn it.”

“Sir?”

“What a clusterfuck,” Francis sighs. “And no, don’t leave, we still have work to do. Edward’s gone to collect Frankie from her sitters. He pours himself another finger of bourbon, sipping it this time, the color returning to his cheeks. “Is Seth around?”

It’s Sunday afternoon but yes, Doug tells him, Seth is still around. “I think he’s camped out in his office,” Doug says. “I think the wedding was either a publicist’s nightmare or wet dream.” Doug pauses, chuckling. “Wet dream, probably. I’ll call and get him up here.”

  
Doug calls while Francis carefully re-packs the first aid kit; there are plenty of things he doesn’t want Frankie to get her hands on, dangerous chemicals and sharp scissors. Sharp…

**_Of course Edward was right. What if I’d hurled the laptop while Frankie was in the room. She might have been hit. And what kind of message is it for a child, to see her father act like a baby, himself?_ **

 

“Sir?”

Doug interrupts Francis’s internal soliloquy. Francis blinks. “Yes?”

“I’ve never seen Edward like that,” Doug says softly, confidentially. “Raising his voice, so to speak. Raising his voice to you – the President.”

The look of remorse leaves Francis’s face, replaced again by the steel of anger. He doesn’t raise his voice as he addresses Doug again, as much as the Chief of Staff might have preferred.

“Stamper,” he begins, moving closer, closer until their eyes are inches apart, Francis’s hand on Doug’s shoulder, his thumb just over the pulse of the man’s carotid artery. Francis squeezes, a shark-like grin spreading as Doug’s pulse quickens. “This is the last time I’ll say this. Edward is my husband. My marriage is not a joke or a long con or a ploy to get a few more inches in the history books. It isn’t because he’s helped raise Frankie, though that’s part of it. It isn’t because Edward is someone I trust with complete confidence, although I find that those people are as scarce as hen’s teeth these days. It’s because I love him and he loves me. When I lost Claire, the garlands of the Presidency became ashes, ashes scattered about the cold, empty tomb that was my heart. But now I have Edward and he and Frankie and I are a family and…” Francis pauses, giving Doug a rough shake. “And you will respect my husband. You will know that Edward has every right to argue with me, even if you don’t think it seemly. So, look deep into your heart and if you can’t find the wherewithal to accept this, I’ll expect your resignation first thing in the morning.”

Francis lets go.

Deflated, Doug nods.

“Excuse me?”

Doug scrambles to sit upright from his slump. “Sir. Yes, Sir. I apologize to you and to the First Gentleman. I was disrespectful, Mr. President, to you both. Please forgive me.”

Eyes down, towards the tips of his brilliantly shined wingtip shoes, Doug waits. A minute passes before a hand touches his shoulder, squeezing briefly.

“I forgive you, Doug. Just see that you keep working on that attitude of yours.”

Doug looks up, his eyes as adoring as a whipped puppy. “Thank you, Sir. I will.”

“I know.” Francis looks at his watch. “I wonder what’s taking them,” he murmurs, craning his neck to see if anyone approaches. There is no one just yet so he stands.

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” Francis tells Doug. “You keep working and when Seth gets here, bring him up to date.”

“Where are you going?”

Francis smiles wryly. “I’ve got an apology of my own to make,” he admits, turning towards the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

Standing to leave, Francis eyes the wastepaper basket filled with broken glass. He sees the droplets of blood on the floor and squelches his impulse to call the housekeeping staff.

“Just a sec,” he murmurs to himself, walking briskly to the small kitchen where he wets some paper towels and adds a dab of dish soap for good measure. He wipes down the floor, finding a few stray shards of glass, wincing at the thought of Frankie getting cut.

 _Be my own damned fault_ , Francis admits with an unusually strong pang of…guilt? It isn’t an emotion he cares for and tries to avoid it at all costs but it seems unavoidable now that he’s actively working on what he half-jokingly calls ‘human mode’. He _has_ to be human, if he’s to keep Edward and Frankie.

He’s scarcely out of the kitchen when he runs headlong into Seth, who is still wearing parts of his post-Inauguration Balls tuxedo. The trousers, at least, for he’s stripped down to a strappy t-shirt, giving Francis a lovely view of his surprisingly muscular arms and shoulders.

Seth hasn’t shaved in two days and smells like he just washed up in the bathroom adjoining his office. He smells strongly of newly applied deodorant – a lot of it, but that’s better than the alternative, Francis can admit, especially when he’s suddenly swept up in a hearty hug of congratulations.

“Sir!” Seth exclaims, pounding Francis’s back. “You and Edward! I’m so happy!” There is more but it’s muffled by the hug.

Something a little bit cold and brittle after Doug’s lack of acceptance suddenly melts and Francis hugs Seth back.

“That’s very sweet of you, Seth. Thank you! I’m glad someone is happy about my marriage,” Francis says archly, giving Doug a very sharp look.

Doug has the decency to wither.

“Oh, everybody is happy, Mr. President – I’ve been up since the Balls, taking messages of congratulations.”

“Almost everyone,” Doug interjects, folding his arms as if he’s proud to be making a point. “Except for the Gay-gate idiots and Tom Hammerschmidt’s allegations about Ed’s… mental abilities.”

“Frankie’s, too,” Seth miserably admits, cringing as if he expects Francis to throw something.

“WHAT?”

Francis’s thunder makes them both step back.

“He didn’t show you? Where’s your laptop, Doug?” asks Seth, looking around fruitlessly, puzzled by Francis’s suddenly reddening cheeks.

“Never mind that,” the President growls. “Just tell me.”

Doug swallows hard; he’s the Senior member of the President’s staff and by rights, the duty falls to him.

“Hammerschmidt is alleging that Frankie is subnormal, Sir. And that’s why all the photos you’ve shared of her are from a distance. Says she looks too small. He’s actually publicly guessing that Frankie has Down Syndrome or other birth defects.”

Francis counts to ten and then to a hundred, eyes shut. When he opens them again, Seth and Doug see nothing but clarity and calm determination.

“We’ll just see about that,” Francis tells his loyal staff. “But first, I need to find my husband.”

“He’s coming, Sir,” Seth says. “He carrying Frankie.”

“Good,” sighs Francis, turning and hurrying.

*

“Hey,” Francis says at the top of the stairs leading into the Residence, nervously glancing up and down Edward’s lean frame, lingering at Frankie, who is asleep in his arms. He receives a trembling smile and a tiny wave in return.

“Walk with me?” Francis asks, relaxing his voice so that it sounds in no way like an order. Edward nods, adjusting Frankie against his shoulder before shyly giving Francis his hand. They turn to the left, heading slowly down the hallway that leads into the unused wing of bedrooms. There’s a window seat just a few steps beyond, private and just the right size for the three of them.

“Seth and Doug are in our living room,” Edward is told as they sit down. It’s sleeting outside, the hard pellets pelting the glass as they turn to face one another. Still holding Edward’s hand, Francis turns it over, lifting it carefully so he can see the size of the cut from the broken glass.

It’s small and has already stopped bleeding. Francis looks at the cut sadly, unable to lift his head so heavy is his regret.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

They sit, Frankie nuzzling against Edward’s neck in her sleep while Francis gathers his thoughts.

“Did you know that Claire once told me, ‘My husband doesn’t apologize to anyone. Not even to me’.”

Edward makes an encouraging sound, running a finger along Francis’s palm. It reminds Francis of that first time, a different cut, when encouraged by more than a few shots of bourbon, Edward had become bold.

“It was when Walker passed me over for Secretary of State. I stayed away from Claire for what seemed like an eternity to me. Turns out it was an eternity for her, too and I’ve never seen her so angry. She wasn’t mad about Walker’s betrayal as much as the fact that I kept it from her for as long as I could manage. I should have gone to her. That we were stronger together.”

The sleet quickens, gathering ice crusting the glass.

“My husband doesn’t apologize. Not even to me,” Francis says again, lifting Edward’s wounded fingertip to his lips. Not kissing exactly, but holding it there, Francis’s breath tickling.

“But you see, I’m not Claire’s husband anymore. I’m yours, Edward, body and soul and I’m very, truly sorry that I had a temper tantrum and broke the laptop. And I’m sorry that I acted like it was not a big deal when it is – I realize that now. I don’t want Frankie growing up like I did, thinking that it’s normal behavior.”

Francis kisses the old scar that graces Edward’s palm, then places Edward’s hand against his cheek, resting against it.

“After Seth and Doug leave, I’ll call the Bishop and invite him over for supper next week. He and I can shoot some pool down stairs and talk about my temper.”

This earns him a kiss, which Francis gratefully returns, enough to jostle Frankie awake.

“Papa! Pap-a!” she cries, as if their three days apart had been an eternity.

“Yes, sweetie. You’ve got two Papas now,” Francis agrees, his laughter cutting short as an idea suddenly hits him.

“I know just what to do,” he tells his little family, “and Tom Hammerschmidt won’t know what hit him.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was plain exhausting, watching Doug and Seth work their particular form of magic using from the plan Francis outlined. A war plan, Francis might have once called it, he and Claire as they scrambled their way to the top. She had grown tired of trying to win hearts, preferring to play Lady Macbeth to his Richard the Third, but now such methods were unnecessary. Now ,Francis has a pair of aces up his sleeve - an adorable baby daughter an equally adorable hero of a husband. A husband with a non-disfiguring disability, to boot, acquired by stopping an assassin

Stepping out of the shower, Francis puffs his cheeks, heaving a rueful sigh. Frankie and Edward were not pawns to be maneuvered for political gain and as dispassionate as he’s prided himself on being, they had nevrr, ever had been anything less than the two people he loves best in the world.

Francis wonderrs if Claire would have been proud or appalled. 

It doesn’t matter now. According to his long held philosophy, gone is gone, though he imagines that the family that the three of them of them had formed, the fathers and their baby, might have made Claire happy. Besides, he'd earned his second, final term as President and didn't give a rat's ass if certain members of the public lost sleep at the thought of their leader getting fingered, fucked or blown by his gorgeous husband. 

Serves them right, he thinks- the hypocrits, with their bibles, and hadn't he won the award for most bible verses memorized each year he'd attended vacation bible school as a boy? 

In truth, that was because even as a boy, Francis had loved the sound of his voice ringing from the rafters. He'd loved showing off his unrivaled intellect, even if it meant regular beat downs from his inbred, redneck peers. And last, but certainly not least, the bible was chock-full of every kind of fucking he could imagine, which had been quite a lot considering the tenderness of his years.

Francis towels himself dry and then reaches for his toothbrush, smiling at the sight  
of Edward’s, freshly rinsed, sharing the cup. It feels good to be married again. 

*

The sheet and duvet were pushed to the foot of the bed when Francis finally returns from the bathroom. Edward is nude, God love him, with one knee pressed against his chest aided by a hand that is red from effort. Francis can't quite see the other, Edward’s right, which is tucked somewhere beneath his balls, squirming rhythmically. Francis glances up at Edward’s face, which is tight with concentration. 

"What do we have here?" Francis isn’t trying to pitch his voice low, but damned if it doesn't come out sweet and sultry. Picking up the bottle of lubricant from the bed where it's shaking with the stuttering of Edward’s hips, Francis removes his robe before stretching out beside him

Francis has never hidden the truth from Edward, admitting on the first night together that he was a submissive, at least as far as Claire and men were concerned. 

"Plain and simple, there's nothing like a thorough dicking or a mouthful of come to make me a happy man, " Francis had told their shy, solemnly body guard that night, scarcely dreaming that four years later they would be joined in the sweet bonds of matrimony. And in that time, Francis had become less rigid about what pleased him in bed. In fact, that was the crux of the matter. Some men never reach the point where their lover's needs and desires match their own in importance and rarer still was the man who could, in the normal course of lovemaking, place his partner’s needs above his own. Francis may have only just reached this hallowed frame of mind but as they say, better late than never and if Edward wanted to be fucked, as was becoming clearer by the minute, the man who was President was more than happy to oblige.

"May I? " he asks, fingers slick with lube, resting lightly on Edward’s upper thigh.

"Please."

His fingers slide in beside Edward’s, pressing and stretching. Francis's dick grows unbearably hard.and he can’t help laughing as he measures the hot gush of preseminal fluid welling from his slit.

"I haven't seen a leak like this since that oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, " he quips and Edward looses the grip on his knee, withdraws his fingers and starts to laugh and groan.

"Too soon?" Francis grins. "Okay. I haven't seen a leak like that since Julian Assange went public."

Edward kicks his heels against the bed, hooting with laughter as he pulls Francis close enough to kiss.

Fuck me, Francis," he begs, flipping on to his belly with unexpected grace, shuffling to his knees so that his ass it level with Francis’s dick.

Francis doesn’t have to be asked twice.


	7. Chapter 7

Francis yawns, rubbing his face as he slides from the bed, stiff-legged. Perhaps from the vigorous exercise of topping, he wonders, though he’s at an age where muscles and joints are more likely than not to ache a bit on cold winter mornings. He treads silently to the bathroom that connects his and Edward’s bedroom with Frankie’s.

They’d completed the move the night before, after finalizing their plans of battle; with Frankie and Edward at arm’s reach instead of across the wide, lonely hall, their marriage finally feels tangible, real.

It’s not all fun, Francis realizes as he fumbles with the newly installed latch that makes the toilet childproof and safe, important now that Frankie is a hair’s breadth from walking. He can put up with a few inconveniences to keep their daughter safe.

Francis tiptoes into her room, where the morning light spills onto her crib making her nut-brown hair shimmer. Watching the rise and fall of her chest for a moment, Francis kisses his fingertips and presses them against her soft curls. Edward is still asleep, looking equally angelic to Francis, long limbed, warm and pleasing to the eye. Edward is warm blooded and has kicked off the covers and sleeping on his belly, exposes his plump, round ass to the air.

Francis climbs back into bed, reclining on an elbow, his hand hesitating over his husband’s soft skin. He wants to touch Edward, to draw a fingertip along the rough, horseshoe shaped scars that scallop the flesh below the former Secret Service Agent’s right shoulder blade, souvenirs of the lifesaving surgeries to repair the immediate and long-term damage wrought by Lucas Goodwin’s bullets. And glancing further down, Francis longs to spread Edward’s cheeks, to see if the vigorous intrusion of his dick the night before has left Edward unscathed or rubbed a pretty pink, perhaps dappled with flakes of drying Presidential semen.  Instead, he looks away at nothing in particular, expressing fixed upon an audience only he can see.   

 

_I hate to wake him. Look at those long, fluttering eyelashes and untroubled expression; it’s at times like these that I can compare Edward to Frankie and wonder if he isn’t indeed her biological father. So innocent, both of them, at least compared to me. Edward has more than done his duty protecting me and now it is my turn to be the protector. He’s the bravest man I know but until now, untouched by the mercurial attentions of the press and public. Edward has seen them claw at me and at Claire and now that he is mine, he’ll take his turn as scratching post. I must shelter him, lest he regret making me his husband. I will not fail him._

 

Edward’s head twitches, turning from the pillow to blink sleepily at Francis, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Said something?” he asks Francis, flopping his hand onto the bare skin of the older man’s thigh, caressing even as he wavers between sleep and awake.

“Just talking to myself,” Francis grins, taking Edward’s hand to his lips to kiss. “It’s time to wake up. We’ve got a busy day.”

*

They shower together, to save time, Francis explains, though Edward knows he has other considerations in mind, especially when Francis kneels on the textured tiles and looks up into the spray of hot water, his mouth opening to envelop Edward’s erection.

Frankie wakes up as Francis starts shaving, babbling happily as Edward scoops her from her crib, bringing her to receive the homage she feels is her due.

“You don’t have to shave,” Francis reminds Edward. “The stylists will take care of that.”

The first real post-wedding press conference is scheduled at 10 am.

“I’ll drop her royal highness off with Nancy,” Francis continues, wiping his face dry. “And meet with Donald to catch up on business and when they’re done making you pretty, Seth will give us a final rundown on the questions that are bound to be asked.”

Edward makes a dramatic moan, collapsing with Frankie onto the bed Francis has neatly made only minutes before.

Francis pulls up his trousers, tucking in his shirts before buckling his belt, nudging Edward’s foot with his knee.

Edward sighs. “Katniss.”

During Edward’s last hospitalization, Francis couldn’t camp out in his room, much as he’d have liked; it would have raised far too many eyebrows if he’d made more than a token visit. Seth, always a dear, had stayed by Edward’s side, working remotely from the hospital for duration of the recovery. Growing bored one afternoon, Seth had grabbed a book from a candy striper’s cart to read out loud. It was ‘The Hunger Games’ and when the book was finished, Seth had bought the remaining volumes, passing them along to Francis when they were done.

“I guess they will need to scrub you raw to make you presentable,” Francis teased, tickling Frankie’s belly, then Edward’s. “Silk purse out of a sow’s ear, they’ll say,” he continues, trying to set Edward at ease.

All had agreed last night that it was important for Edward, as the first First Gentleman, to present himself in public with all the elegant trappings of a traditional First Lady.

“You’ll be as elegant as Claire,” Francis tells him, buttoning his shirt and slipping the **FU** cuff links in place for good luck.

Edward nods.

“As for the rest of the week, we’ll have the reporter from Vanity Fair this afternoon and his photographers tomorrow and the day after. Then we’ll fly to New York for Colbert on Friday.”

“And Hammerschmidt?” Edward asks, using his hands to sign the questions, his apraxia growing worse as nervousness flairs again.

“He’ll be at the press conference. Seth’s confirmed it.” Dressed, Francis scoops Frankie up, slinging her diaper bag over his shoulder. “Just leave the rest to me.”


	8. Chapter 8

"Mr. Vice President." Francis strides into the Oval Office, where Donald Blythe fumbles to his feet, spilling several files from his lap as he reaches to shake hands.

"Francis, congratulations again!" He looks at Francis, unapologetically appraising. "Married life suits you; you look a decade younger."

Francis smiles smugly. "Parts of me feel ready for retirement, " he tells the bland, soft-featured Donald, making an amusingly dramatic wince as he lowers his hard-ridden as onto his leather chair.

From the corner of his eye aa he sees country's second-in-charge hide a frown.

"What's wrong?" It comes out lilting and amused, though Francis's patience is fading. Leave it to Donald to cock things up

"Nothing, nothing at all. The country is tip-top, just like you left it." Nervously, he hands Francis the folders of top secret briefs. 

"Now, Donald..." It's a testament of his determination to follow through with his promise to Edward that Francis doesn’t chuck his desk lamp at the man; instead he grabs his brass letter opener and spins it. Light plays on shining blade and it's enough to merely imagine plunging it into Donald's neck.

He must have zoned off for a few seconds; Donald's mouth stops moving and he’s looking expectantly at Francis. 

"Beg pardon?"

"I was just saying that Edward is a wonderful man and I know the two of you be happy. And...."

"And?"

Donald looks pained. "Well, Iit's just that...Claire was such a vibrant, beautiful woman. "

"Yes, she was."

"I was thinking, ah, that it was a shame that you're..." 

"A shame that I'm queer? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes," Donald blurts raggedly. "What a waste of a beautiful woman. Poor Claire, married to a man who couldn't want her."

Donald's downcast eyes prevent him from noticing Francis until he’s spun about, pushed hard against the Presidential desk.

"I know that you're stupid, Donald, but honestly?"

Francis pushes his face against the leather blotter, a brutal parody of one of Francis and Edward's favorite sexual positions.

"Do you like this? "Francis asks, his voice confiding and friendly. "Edward does. And Claire did. You should have seen her, Donald - arching her perfect, heart-shaped against me, begging me to slip it to her. And I would," Francis continues, his breath hot against the Vice President's ear. " And her pussy was so hot and snug. Just like you imagined it, hmm?"

Francis gives his arm a twist. 

"Yes, yes."

Francis chuckles. "You know, sometimes instead of fucking her, I'd flIp Claire over on this desk so she'd face me. It was easy, she was strong but light as a feather and it only be a second before I'd have those long, long legs hooked over my shoulders and my face buried against her sweet cunt. I'd eat her out for hours, right here in the Oval Office. Hell, she'd just about break my neck as she came."

Donald moans and Francis, disgusted, releases his hold. 

"If nothing else by now you should have learned to mind your own business," Francis lectures, smiling benignly at Donald's broken expression. "And never...assume....anything. ...about me." 

Business concluded , Francis heads to the door. It's nearly 10am, time for the press conference and Edward will be waiting.


	9. Chapter 9

After the Mayhem Twins leave, the President and First Gentleman cuddled on the couch, leafing through a wedding gift from Seth. 

“It isn’t much,” he apologizes, pulling a leather-bound binder from his briefcase, a binder that’s embossed with the words ‘Top Secret’ and ‘Eyes Only’. It’s a wedding album, with several dozens of pictures: Francis adjusting Edward’s tie before taking the Inaugural Stage, the two of them kissing Frankie as she’s handed over to her trusted Secret Service detail, Francis’s speech, with Edward watching from the sidelines, clearly bursting with tender pride. There are photos of the vows, the kiss and of Edward holding forth the Underwood family bible as Claire had done before him and of the two of them making the traditional walk back to the White House, hand in hand.

They notice Doug’s embarrassed wince, again outdone by the more thoughtful Seth and so they wait until they were alone to examine it.

“What kind of First Gentleman do you want to be?” Francis asks, stifling a yawn as Edward’s head droops against his shoulder.

“It’s up to you,” he continues, nuzzling against Edward’s cheek. “I’d just as soon keep you to myself but that doesn’t look likely.” Francis means it; Edward has been through so much and had never sought attention to himself. He hadn’t asked for the spotlight to focus unsparingly nor the river of vile comments that always comes with public praise.

“Claire.”

“Hmm?” Suddenly, Francis is awake, his heart jolted. “Claire? You want to be like Claire?”

They both miss her so much, every day, every time they study the angles of Frankie’s face as her baby fat melts away into toddler slimness.

Edward shrugs. “Bold.”

Almost anyone who knows Edward might have laughed but Francis remembers Edward’s face as he fires at Lucas Goodwin and knows that as unlikely as it might seem, his husband is capable of bold.  He takes Edward’s hands in his own, squeezing tight as their eyes meet.

“Of course you can be bold. But you don’t need to be Claire for me or the American public. In my mind, you’re perfect being Edward and I’ll never ask for anything more.”

*

Francis watches from the sidelines as Seth introduces Dr. Gupta, the newly-appointed Surgeon General, who will present a brief overview of stroke-induced apraxia to augment the carefully edited fact sheet covering Edward’s life, which includes photos in his Marine Corps and DC Metro uniforms.

He shifts from foot to foot, waiting for Edward, feeling uncharacteristically nervous despite the fact that Seth has already warned the press that certain, intimate questions will unlikely be entertained so don’t bother.

“You’re shiny,” Doug observes as he settles next to Francis. “Let me powder your face. The stylist always cakes on too much.”

Francis blinks, then reaches to clasp Doug’s arm.

“Claire used to say that.”

Doug smiles as he replies, “I know.”

“Now where is my husband?”

“Here,” announces Edward, beaming shyly at them, uncomfortable but gorgeous in a dark pewter suit of rough, iridescent silk. He’s tie-free and as his pale lavender shirt is open two buttons to reveal ivory skin and a hint of chest hair, undershirt-free, as well. The ensemble is pulled together with a brilliant violet pocket square and gold Secret Service Agency cuff links.

It takes a second for Francis breath again and when he does, he makes a silent twirling gesture with his finger. Edward obliges, earning a low, husky, “Stunning,” before they are shepherded into place in the press room’s wings.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Seth announces proudly, “The President and First Gentleman!”

Francis offers his elbow and Edward takes it, and they face the press, a perfect team.

*

Francis holds out Edward’s chair before taking his own seat at the table they are using instead of the typical podium, which is now to the side, a perch for Seth, who takes his duty as press wrangler with deadly seriousness.

There’s a large paper pad and several Sharpie pens on the table, as well as glasses filled with ice water. They’ve agreed ahead of time that Edward will respond to questions either using sign language, interpreted by Edward's American Sign Language instructor, or by written answers, using the paper and Sharpies.  If nothing else, Edward can actually talk, a last resort because it’s much harder.

“Good morning,” Francis says cheerfully, leaning forward as if he owns the room, which, technically, he supposes he does. Glancing down at a sheet in front of him, he taps the table top with his class ring and clears his throat.

“I’d like to start by making two announcements. First, I’d like to thank the planning committee of the Jefferson Ball for offering to host our wedding reception two Saturdays from now, which should give my staff enough time to invite foreign dignitaries and whoever else might want to come. I’m told that in addition to the ball’s typical festivities there will be wedding cake and more than the usual amount of champagne.”

The room full of reporters laugh.

“And I’m very pleased to say that Frankie’s first birthday is this Monday. Edward and I will visit Claire’s tomb and spend the morning in quiet reflection, remembering the woman so dear to us and so terribly missed. Following lunch, we’ll bring Frankie to the offices of the Chief Justice, where adoption papers will be finalized, making Edward equally our daughter’s father in the eyes of the law.”

There’s quiet murmuring that suddenly ignites into applause, though Francis can see a small percentage of the group, Thomas Hammerschmidt included, are merely frowning.

“And now, if you’d like to begin your questions?” Francis, leans back into his chair, his arm companionably across Edward’s back.

The room is silent.

“What? Nothing?”

A woman in the middle, Sheila Brown, Francis thinks, raises her hand. “How?”

Francis glances at Edward, whose dark eyes now seem less worried. Another, Mike something or other, stumbles to his feet.

“Why?”

This is all getting a bit too much.

“If someone will give us a ‘When?’ I’ll think we’re in business.” Francis chuckles, resting his chin in his palm, ready to wait it out. When there’s no response he sighs.

“You see, members of the press, when two men love each other, very, very much…”

The reporter to the left of Hammerschmidt raises his hand and Seth calls on him.

“How long, Mr. President, have you been gay?”


	10. Chapter 10

To the right of the rows of chairs stand four easels upon which four poster-sized framed photographs rest, the subject - Edward Underwood.

The first is of a startlingly young Edward dressed in dusty military fatigues, his arm casually slung across the shoulders of another Marine as they lean against a Humvee.

The second, an action shot of Edward trotting close behind Francis’s heals as they march up the steps of the Department of Justice.

The third is intimate, a shot taken by Seth a day after Frankie’s birth. The photo, black and white, shows Edward cradling the premature infant in the crook of his arm, pressing a doll-sized baby bottle to her lips. In the background is Francis, still dangerously close to shock, sedated in his hospital bed.

And finally, the pair triumphant, exchanging kisses after taking their wedding vows in front of the watching world.

When Hammerschmidt drops his bomb of a question, the room explodes, first with shouts, then pushing, then fists start flying. Edward stands and turns, practically lifting Francis to his feet and sweeping him back, behind the former-Secret Service Agent, where he’s hidden from line of sight and when a grappling pair of reporters hit the wedding portrait, all four photographs are sent tumbling, the heavy metal frames sounding like gunfire on the marble floor.

It’s like a dream, a nightmare as the world is suddenly reduced to a slow-frame blur as Francis is slammed to the floor, Edward on top of him, Edward, who is giving panic-clipped orders into the imaginary radio at his wrist:

“Little John is down! Repeat, Little John is down. Shots fired. Assailant not targeted. Delta Protocol, ASAP!”

It's a coincidence that the room is immediately flooded with dozens of Secret Service agents, all ready to crack skulls first and ask names later in the name of the President and First Gentleman’s safety.

It’s Seth, Doug and Agent Rockland that drag the First Couple into the wings, out of sight, grabbing hold of Edward’s coat and pulling him as his grip on Francis remains tight. Once clear of the commotion, Francis frantically pats Edward down, as far as he can reach.

“Edward, honey –are you hit?”

“Sir? Are you?” Edward replies, white as a sheet, refusing to move from the corner where he’s dragged the President so as to shield him more easily. Doug reaches out, his hand stopping just short of Edward’s shoulder.

“Come on, Ed. It’s okay. You and Francis are safe.”

His words are slow and soothing, carefully annunciated to break through Edward’s PTSD fog. It doesn’t work.

Francis, in the throws of his own traumatized brain, whimpers, clutching Edward harder.

Doug turns to Agent Rockland, whispering. Edward’s former boss and friend nods, stepping in front of Edward and with precise movements, takes a knee so that their eyes are level.

“Little John is safe. Stand down, Agent Meechum.”

Pupils wide and soaked with sweat, Edward shivers, shaking his head.

“That’s an order, agent. You’ve done your duty. Stand down, son. Stand down.”

Edward exhales, long and rattling as his stiff posture dissolves into unsteadiness. Seth and Doug at his sides, he’s helped up and placed onto a nearby couch. Francis follows, harder to help up because he’s clutching his liver, reliving the pain of Lucas Goodwin’s bullets.

“Where’s the doctor?” Doug snaps, sending staff scampering to phones. He turns to the two men on the couch.

"Put your head between your knees, that’s it,” Doug says, guiding Edward into position to keep from fainting, then hands Francis a bottle of water, which he drains in one gulp.

“Doug, have Nancy cancel the rest of my appointments for the day.”

“The Vanity Fair people…?”

“Fuck the Vanity Fair people,” Francis snaps, regretting it instantly when Edward moans.

“Get me Seth,” Francis demands more quietly, his arm stroking Edward’s shaking back.

Seth hurries, red-faced and miserable. “Yes, Sir! I’m so sorry, President Underwood. So sorry!”

Francis shakes his head. “Seth. I’m not angry with you. Not your fault, those ill-mannered baboons…”

Edward refuses a bottle of water, his head burrowing into the warmth of his husband’s thigh. He moans, still wondering why his lungs feel like they are on fire and when the bleeding is going to stop.

“I want you to take the press passes of anyone who threw a punch and I want you to shred them,” Francis growls, his dander rising. “I don’t care if they are Barbra Walter’s and Anderson Cooper’s love child – they’re gone!”

“With pleasure, Sir,” Seth replies, happy to be on the President’s good side, happy to be kicking many of the reporters, the pains in his ass, to the curb. But he remembers something. “Sir? What about Tom Hammerschmidt? Do you want me to cancel tomorrow’s appointment?”

It was part of the plan to kill the bastard with kindness, an invitation to take breakfast with the first family, the opportunity for an exclusive interview.

“I’d like to see him meet Frankie and then call her retarded, the son of a bitch,” Francis had said when they came up with the idea. But now?

“Don’t cancel. In fact, call him to make sure that he’s still coming. Tell him….” Francis smiles a smile that would have made Frankie cry if she’d seen it, a cold, shark-like grin. “Tell him that I won’t take no for an answer.”


	11. Chapter 11

Francis allows the staff physician to take his blood pressure before waving him off. "I'm fine," he insists, hovering over Edward's prone form on the couch beside him. 

"Respiration is elevated. Blood pressure and heartbeat all over topping the upper limits of normal. Skin, clammy and pale," the doctor dictates to his assistant. "Flashbacks and emotionally labile, ranging from numbness to marked guarding behavior and angry outbursts."

"Doctor, what can we do for my husband?" Francis asks, his teeth grinding to keep from throwing Edward over his shoulder and heading for the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom. "It's PTSD, isn't it?"

The doctor nods. "We'll see. I haven't finished with you, yet."

*

Francis and Doug flank Edward, keeping him moving as they mount the stairs leading to the Residence. Francis waits until the door is closed before cracking. There's a bottle of pills in his hand, prescribed to Edward to combat anxiety. He'd refused medicine for himself, citing the whole Walker debacle as his reason. 

"They tore Garrett apart," Francis shudders, throwing the bottle hard against the wall, feeling oddly disappointed when the lid remains intact and the pills don't fly everywhere. Facing Doug, Francis folds his arms and scowls. "I won't let them do that to me." 

Doug shrugs, hunting for the bottle beneath a nearby settee. He pours a glass of water in the kitchen and returns, handing it and a pill to Edward, who looks to Francis as if waiting for his approval.

"Take it, damn it."

It doesn't seem possible that Edward could look any more drawn and miserable but he does, taking the pill with a shudder. Doug squeezes his shoulder, taking the glass and placing it in the kitchen sink. He returns to the First Gentleman, ignoring the President.

"Ed," he says, using the familiar name instead of the title that seems cold and impersonal now. "Honey, why don't you go draw a hot bath. Frank and I will be there in just a minute."

Edward nods, his shoulders stooped as he walks towards the bedroom suite, his fingers listlessly picking at the buttons of his new shirt. Doug waits until he hears the bathroom door open before turning to the man he secretly considers his best friend, no - a brother.

"I'm only going to say this once, Frank."

"Don't you mean 'Mr. President'?" Francis spits, rising and though he's an inch or two shorter than Doug, he appears much larger, his hands ready to push or punch if need be.

"I'm only going to say this once, Frank," repeats Doug, puffing out his own chest, adding a finger pointing hard against the Commander and Chief's chest. "I get that you are angry. I get that what happened down there scared you. But stop thinking about yourself for once. For God's sake, think about poor Edward."

Doug's words are like a pin, pricking Francis's balloon. The President seems suddenly smaller, with worry and remorse flashing across his formerly livid features. "What about him?" 

"He's hurting, Frank. Ed was so ready to make you proud and now he thinks he's made a fool out of himself in front of those reporters, in front of the nation! He wanted to be strong, to show those assholes that he isn't broken, only to relive the assassination attempt that almost killed you both." Doug places his hands on Francis's shoulders. "He thinks he's failed you."

"But...but he hasn't," Francis replies, the words stumbling from his lips like Frankie's alphabet blocks. "Edward is the bravest man I know. He saved my life. He makes my life worth living. Nothing changes that."

"Then get in there and show him."

"I don't know how."

Anger fades from Doug as he's forced to admit Edward wasn't the only one who'd re-experienced Lucas Goodwin's attack. He takes Francis's hand. "Come with me."

*

The water is steaming hot and almost overflowing by the time Doug and Francis walk into the palatial bathroom. Edward is sitting on the edge of the tub, nude but for his boxer briefs, his mind somewhere, somewhere unpleasant.

"Shit," exclaims Doug, twisting nobs to cut the water supply, wincing as he reaches into the how water to let the tub drain. He turns the cold water back on, his attention torn between helping Francis undress and making sure the water won't scald them. It takes more than a minute but soon he's satisfied.

"You, first," he tells Edward, standing him up first before pushing the underwear down to his feet. He helps Edward into the tub, helping him stay balanced as he sits down, the water reaching just above his belly button.

"Now, you," Doug says to Francis, who cocks and eyebrow and asks, "Am I a toddler, Doug? Or am I still your boss?"

"Toddler," Doug replies smartly, smacking the President's bare ass playfully.

"I see," sighs Francis, sliding into the tub behind Edward.

In retrospect, Doug's amazed that he puts up with it, that the most powerful man in the world lets him scrub his back and wash his hair. That Francis docilely accepts the bath sponge Doug hands him and washes Edward, who's skin is regaining something more like it's normal shade of pink, whose breathing is no longer labored, who no longer looks like an extra on The Walking Dead. But it works, Francis even humming as he rinses Edward's hair and helps him from the tub, where Doug wraps them with fluffy bath sheets before leading them to the bedroom. There, he hunts through the unfamiliar dresser drawers, pulling out t-shirts, sweatpants and thick socks.

"I've got to take care of something," Doug says hastily as they slowly start to dress. 

"I can handle this," Francis says, nodding agreeably. 

*

It takes longer than Doug expects but they soon re-enter the hall, fully dressed, hair combed, just in time for the breakfast that Doug's ordered from the kitchen. He wheels the service cart over to the breakfast table, unloading plates filled with scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and home fries. There's even a napkin-covered basket filled with hot biscuits. Doug pours orange juice and coffee, sitting back and waiting until every scrap of food is eaten. It doesn't take long before they are wiping their plates clean with the last of the biscuits.

"Now, back to bed, both of you. I won't take no for an answer," Doug orders, enjoying the role of mother hen. "I'll go see Frankie and give her detail a little break. I'll stay with her until you call me," he says, taking the dishes and returning them to the cart. "Get some rest."

"Yes, Sir," Francis replies with a crisp little salute that makes Doug grin. The trauma isn't erased but the tension has, at least for now, and if that isn't in Douglas Stamper's official list of duties, it should be.


	12. Chapter 12

Francis can’t sleep for more than an hour, despite the stress of the morning, despite Edward sleeping next to him, with the siren song of his soft snore. The sheets are bunched around Edward’s hips. He’s flat on his belly and his shorts are riding down, exposing the sweet cleft of his ass. Francis wants nothing more than to kiss down from the small of Edward’s back, to finally rest his head on the soft pillows of flesh.

Francis doesn’t; he can’t wake him, not after the crap that he’s been put through. It’s just as well that that he’s awake because his phone flashes to life – not the emergency line that every President dreads, but Francis’s personal phone. He checks the number and smiles.

“Hello, Tim,” he says softly, crawling out of bed. Edward stirs, lifting his head, his eyes blinking.

“It’s Tim, honey. I’ll take it in the living room.”

Edward nods, opening and shutting his hand, a sleepy wave.

“Edward says ‘Hello’,” he tells Tim, tiptoeing to the door, his husband’s wiffling little snore already returned. *

“How was your flight?” He’d booked Tim’s flight to and from D.C. himself. Well, Nancy had, which was even better – even if Francis couldn’t use Air Force One to pick up and deliver his oldest friend for the Inauguration and wedding, she could make sure that he had the finest service. Francis finds his body relaxing at the slow, measured cadence of Tim’s speech.

“I guess you saw the news?”

Of course Tim had, the whole debacle was being aired on every channel, already the fodder of gossip and speculation.

“What hurts is what it did to Edward,” he admits, unable to discuss his own brand of pain. “He’s trying so hard to live up to Claire’s legacy. He looked so sleek in his new suit, all ready to take on the world and everything was shot to shit.”

He listens to Tim’s thoughtful commiseration, nodding without even noticing.

“It’s been so hard, Tim. So many secrets. Hell, I thought that it would be liberating, to finally come out of the closet. No, not gay – of all people, you should know how I felt about Claire. Bi? I guess, though that doesn’t cover it either, not entirely. But what good is loving someone when it only serves to hurt them? Edward’s in bed, sleeping off a tranquilizer, all because Tom Hammerschmidt threw a bomb at me.”

Francis sighs, listening hard, his forehead furrowing. He shakes his head, puffing exasperatedly.

“I guess you’re right. You've known me for over thirty five years and if _you_ had to ask, I guess it was a legitimate question.” He laughs. “But you were much sweeter about it; more polite. He’s coming here tomorrow, to have breakfast with us. I was split about how to treat him. One side of me wants to wrap my hands around his neck and…. No, I promised Edward that I’m not going to do that sort of thing anymore. Yes, he knows about what happened at the Sentinel. And the others. But we should stop there if you want to maintain plausible deniability. I’ll do my best to keep my anger in check. All right, I know you admire Residence’s lamps, so I promise I won’t throw any. But what about books? No? All right, I’ll think of you and of Edward and Frankie and I’ll try to be good.”

They both chuckle.

“I guess you’re right. Killing with kindness is the best option. Plus, I don’t think any argument, even with my silver tongue, would change his attitude. Not any better than my gorgeous husband and our brilliant baby.”

Edward enters the wide hallway, padding towards Francis with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Tim, I’ve got to go. Thank you. Yes, I will. Good bye.”

“This is from Tim,” Francis says, planting a loud smooch on Edward’s forehead as the younger man snuggles sleepily against his chest. “We’ll get dressed in a minute and go get Frankie. It feels like days since we’ve seen her.”

Edward signs his agreement, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a toddler.

“And I’ll need to talk to Doug and Seth. We’ll have another press conference tomorrow afternoon and this time it will be different.”


End file.
